Let it Be
by The Hitch Hiker's Thumb
Summary: You sit, staring over the scars like spider webs on your thighs, and you wonder: is this what she felt like? / Stars Monaco as Camille. written in second person because why not. Warnings for eating disorders and self-harm. Human AU. I'm still not sure how long this is going to be, but enjoy!


You spend a long time looking in the mirror, holding the dress up to yourself. It is a beautiful garment, no doubt about it, and you adore the lace. It looks fabulous on Michelle, with her olive completion and flat stomach. Everything looks fabulous on Michelle, though, especially colors reminiscent of the sea or the summer sky.

"Am I fat?" You throw the question over your shoulder, to the girl flipping through the magazines on her bed. Your eyes never leave the reflection before you.

You could hear the magazine closing as Michelle set it down, and you could hear the soft patter of bare feet on hardwood as she moved to stand behind you. You look at the face to your left. Michelle had a frown on her lips and a furrow in her brow.

"Camille," She said, "You've got us worried." You turn to look at her and not her reflection, and maybe to ask what she meant. "You haven't been eating, and I was hoping it was some ridiculous diet you were on, but-"

"Michelle, I don't have a problem, if that's what you're trying to say," You interrupt her with a small laugh, and the crease in her brow deepens. Even so, you find it unfair that someone could be so effortlessly pretty.

"Yes, you do." She says and pulls you close to her chest. She smells faintly of cherries, and you let go of the dress to wrap your arms around her because she's crying now.

You pat her back and tell her everything will be okay, because that's what Francis would do in this situation. But your comforting is awkward and sloppy, and you doubt if you're doing anything to ease you friend's tears. You were always horrible when it came to making someone smile again.

You leave Michelle's house a short while later. Stepping out her front door, you were bathed in the golden light of the sun at dusk. There was a sharp sort of coolness in the air, and you were reminded that winter was just around the corner. You would have to dig your good coat out of your closet soon, and you wonder if you've outgrown it since last year. It was old, and you would have to replace it soon anyway, but the thought of being too big for it sickens you.

Francis bought that coat for you that Christmas you spent in Paris with your mother and her new family a few years back. Papa was to go on a business trip over the holiday which, as you now know, was code for spending time with his new girlfriend in Cancun.

You should call up Bella, your step-sister, you think as you walk right into Alfred.

"Oh! Um, Sorry Camille, I should really watch where I'm going," Alfred says softly and sincerely. You smile and look into his eyes to say it's alright and that your mind was elsewhere, when you notice his eyes were almost a violet and Oh! This was Matthew, not Alfred.

"No, no, it's my fault." You tell him, and he gives a shy grin to match yours.

"Well, maybe a little," and you laugh lightly and start walking along the sidewalk with him.

"So, where are you heading, Matthew," You ask, and his smile widens when you say his name. The boy had probably thought you had mistaken him for his brother. Again.

"Oh, just over to Ivan's" He explains, and the name rings a bell.

"Braginski?"

"Yeah," You know the younger sister, but to call the two of you friends would be almost laughable. Natalya had instantly hated your guts since that first day of freshman year when you sat next to her in Homeroom. She had pretty hair and pretty clothes and a face prettier than Michelle's, and you guess you sort of hated her for that, so the feeling was mutual.

"Oh," you say, because you don't know what else to say.

"Yeah, you can come if you want. That is, if you aren't busy," Matthew offers, and you wonder how anyone could ever mistake him for Alfred- where Alfred was brash and rude, Matthew was gentle and soft. You knew Alfred had a heart of gold, but you don't think Alfred could ever match Matthew's kindness.

You met the twins when you were five in preschool. The three of you were all new to the neighborhood, and banded together because the other kids had all already formed their own groups of friends. Since then, you've grown apart from the quiet twin, but he was always very kind whenever you were at his house to tutor Alfred.

"I'd love to, but Francis is probably worried by now,"

"Oh," Matthew says.

"I was supposed to be home a while ago, so I'm going to get an earful as it is," You tell Matthew, and he laughs.

"It's only 'cause he cares, you know. A lot of people don't like him, but he's a nice guy," You remember that Francis and Matthew are good friends, and that Francis sometimes drives Matthew to school in the morning.

"Yeah, well, I had best be going." You tell him, "It was nice talking with you, though,"

"Let me walk you home," He says and turns to head in the other direction with you, "it'll be dark by the time you get home,"

You smile and politely decline, but he insists. You're secretly grateful, because night does come quickly this time of year and walking the streets alone scares you.

"Ivan can wait," he tells you, and you laugh like it's a joke.

"But he shouldn't have to, not because of me, anyway,"

"I think you're worth it." Matthew says, and you don't know how to respond, so you don't say anything at all.

You walk the remaining to blocks in silence, and come to a stop in front of your house.

Your house is small and off-white, with dark black shutters that Francis had recently repainted. The flower beds are brimming with life, but you notice that Francis had dug up several flowers that don't survive well in the cold. They're potted and inside now, you think.

"Thank you, Matthew. Have a good night," You tell him and start going up the walkway leading to the door.

"Hey, Camille," Matthew says, and you turn to look at him. "Um, you too," You nod in acknowledgment and go inside.

Francis has his jazz records playing again, and there's laughter in the kitchen. You walk to your bedroom, and peer into the kitchen as you pass it. You're surprised to see Arthur Kirkland sitting at your kitchen table, laughing at some joke your brother must have just said. You don't announce your presence, because you know it would make this uncomfortable for everyone involved: Francis and Arthur are supposed to hate each other.

Your bedroom walls are a pastel pink and the floor is a plush white carpet. It's not much, but you like it well enough. You can still hear the two of them in the kitchen; Arthur is saying something, but you don't care enough to pay attention.

When Francis was eight and Arthur was seven, their feud started. Francis never told you why, and no one other than he and Arthur knew what exactly had happened. From the pieces you had put together, you think it has something to do with a young lass's affection, and Francis had insulted Arthur's mother.

You wonder if maybe they had a common enemy, and that's why Francis would trust Arthur enough to be in his kitchen. You hope they won't break anything.

You sit at your desk to finish that chemistry homework. You receive a text from Michelle.

**Sorry about 2day. mayb I over-reacted? **

You don't respond, because you don't really want to talk to her right now. You don't have a problem. You know you don't have a problem.

It's eight o'clock when Francis sends you a text requesting you come home for dinner, after the jazz and laughter had ceased. Your lips slip into a smirk because Francis has no idea you've been home for a while.

"Not hungry," you call from your bedroom, and you can almost see Francis stopping dead in his tracks in the kitchen.

"Oh, Camille. H-how long have you been home?" He asks with a nervous laugh.

"Long enough,"

Francis cleans his throat and says, "Well, its dinner time. Come here."

"Not hungry," you call again.

"But, _ma fifille_," Francis sighs, and you roll your eyes because he still talks to you like you're a little kid, "You wouldn't make your wonderful big brother eat all alone, would you? Won't you at least come out and keep me company?"

You groan and get up, because it is the very least you could do. Francis eats dinner alone a lot and you remember reading that could be detrimental to youths. Maybe Francis is a bit too old for that to affect him, but you do know how hard Francis pines for a normal family structure.

Francis was rather close with your mother before she bailed on both of you and decided she liked her other family better. Since then, the boy has been trying to replace her while trying to care for others the she was supposed to do for him. So, Francis may be a bit clingy and his Big Brother Complex might be a bit strange, but you think you may be the only family Francis has left to count on.

You take your seat at the small bistro-style table in the kitchen. Francis looks you over as he sets himself a place at the table. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" you give him a smile to prove your point and his face twists into one of worry, not unlike Michelle's earlier that day.

"Such a pretty girl, _ma fifille_," Francis smiles after a moment as he sits down, "Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?"

Francis laughs because he knows you hate that pet name. It brings to mind the image of him and Arthur seated across from each other.

"So," you say, "About earlier…"

"_Non_, we shall never speak of that," Francis says pointedly, defensively. You laugh at him. He pops a forkful of pasta in his mouth and sends you a half-hearted glare. "I was at Toni's today, and little Feliciano, that darling boy, gave me this recipe. It's very good; won't you have some?"

"I'm not hungry," you whine, and rest your head against the table. Francis sighs again.

"Did something happen today?"

"No, just Michelle's being stupid," you lift your head up to meet Francis' concerned gaze.

"Now, you shouldn't be insulting her like that. She's a very good friend to you," he scolds and you say you know. The room is filled with only the humming of the lights and Francis's fork lightly meeting the his plate.

"Tomorrow," Francis starts, "Papa will be having guests over for supper, so we must straighten up and make ourselves scarce. Will you be attending church service?"

"Eh, I don't think so,"

"Good. That way, we can clean in the morning," another mouthful of pasta, "Mrs. Carriedo is making churros tomorrow, and has invited us over." You frown, because as nice as the Carriedo's are, Antonio has always disturbed you a bit. He's a good kid, and you can see what Francis sees in him, but smiling that much is unnatural—even for a boy who could possibly be the personification of sunshine.

"I don't know-"

"You have plans, Camille? Are they with a boy?" Francis has a lopsided grin dripping with perversion. You burn a bright red and tell him no, of course not. You know you are not the type of girl that boys covet.

"Such a shame, they do not know what they are missing," Francis shakes his head as his grin becomes soft and kind-hearted.

The way Francis talks, you'd think he was talking about another girl. A girl who was pretty and kind and talented and perfect; a girl like Michelle. You would like to tell Francis that he's wrong about you, and you would like to tell him about the cuts and the burns. But Francis has this look of pride and unadulterated adoration swelling in his eyes that stops you every time. He's the only one who's ever looked at you like that, and you couldn't bear to lose it. You find yourself feeling alone.

You think it's a bit pathetic, for a kid who lives in the suburbs to whine and bemoan their existence, so you try not to most of the time. You do most of your whining and bemoaning alone, in the dark, in the confines of your pink walls and white carpet. All the people you surround yourself with are happy and content and mostly not miserable, and you wonder why you can't be like them. You wish you could be happy like them.

When you fifteen, Alfred held your hand in the night because it was late and you were frightened. The two of you had wondered off, away from the party that Gilbert had thrown. It was a Friday, or maybe an early Saturday morning, in the summertime. Alfred had slowed his long strides to walk at your side.

"Make a wish," He had said, pointing upward to the comet streaking across the sky. Alfred was a stargazer, he still is, always preoccupied with dreams of being an astronaut landing on the moon or maybe on Mars.

_Let me be thin. Let me be beautiful. Let me be loved._

Technically, it was three wishes, and maybe it was cheating, but when Alfred tore his gaze away from the sky and back down to you, you knew one wish had already come true.

It's become a prayer of sorts since that summer.

_LetmebethinLetmebebeautifulLetmebeloved._

And you wonder sometimes if Alfred still thinks you're pretty and if he ever really loved you in the first place. You think maybe he did, maybe he didn't.

Francis is waving his hand in front of your face, "Camille, have you been listening?" you grin sheepishly and he sighs. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Positive," Francis looks at you with a frown, and you know he doesn't believe you.

"You can tell me anything, you know."

"I know," you get stand up and start walking out of the room, "I'm going to get a shower,"

"Very well," He says as he puts his dish in the sink.


End file.
